More Brief Briefings (another 100)
by JantoJones
Summary: A series of Man from U.N.C.L.E. ficlets which are longer than a drabble, but with fewer than 800 words.
1. On Watch

It was a simple task, which he had performed so many times in the past. The action of it had become instinctive to him over the years but, for some reason, it was eluding him right at that moment. Trying, and failing, for the fifth time, Napoleon swore loudly. Why couldn't he do it? All he had to do was insert the key in the lock and open the door.

"What are you doing?" Illya asked softy, as he watched his partner scraping a white plastic spoon against the bathroom door.

The question wasn't accusatory, or even a request for answers for that matter. He was simply trying to work out what was happening Napoleon's head. The drug he had been given by Thrush, almost twenty-four hours previously, seemed to still have Solo in its hallucinogenic grip.

He had played out several scenarios as the drug coursed through him. Some of them had been dramatic, such as trying to stab Illya with the knife the Russian had used for his lunch. It was because of this that plastic cutlery had begun to be used instead. Mostly, however, his actions were mundane. Between these bouts he slept. The doctors had ascertained that it shouldn't last too much longer, and were encouraged that the hallucinations were becoming fewer over time. This didn't stop Illya from worrying.

"I'm trying to get into my apartment, Tovarisch," Napoleon replied, with a tone which suggested that Illya had to be blind not to be able to see that.

Kuryakin sighed and, crossing the room, he gently placed his hands on Napoleon's shoulders, and guided him back to his bed. U.N.C.L.E.'s chief medic, Leonard Barrie, didn't think there was any need to restrain the CEA, as long as there was someone with him at all times to stop him wandering off. Given that agents rarely left a partner's bedside, it meant that a nurse's time didn't need to be taken up.

"Get off me, you Thrush bastard!" Napoleon yelled suddenly, as Illya tried to persuade him to get into bed.

The blond ducked just in time for Solo's swinging fist to miss him. As the American span around with the momentum, he flopped down on the bed and promptly fell asleep. Illya lifted his friend's legs up, and the covered him with a blanket.

Sitting back down, Illya picked up the book he had been reading, and settled down to wait for the next hallucination. He himself hadn't slept for almost thirty-six hours, and he wouldn't do so until he was sure the drug had left Napoleon, and he was back in the real world.


	2. Hello Darkness, My Old Friend

Napoleon Solo looked up at the night sky and cursed under his breath. The full moon was particularly bright and it bathed the clearing ahead in a silver light, which was almost as bright as day. Living in the city, with its neon signs, streetlights, and lit windows, he was accustomed to night-time never being truly dark. Out in the middle of nowhere, however, he knew that it could get so dark that you couldn't see your hand in front of your face. That was on moonless nights of course and, in his head, Napoleon was complaining to himself that it had no business being so light at midnight.

Glancing at his partner, who was scanning the area for any sign of an enemy, he wondered if they would be able to escape unseen after all.

The pair had had successfully infiltrated the home of a high level Thrush commander, and retrieved information pertaining to a rumoured new weapon which was being developed. The security on the house, which was miles from anywhere in a large forest clearing, was excessive and tight; though this wasn't a barrier to the two seasoned agents. The only real problem was having to cross the clearing without being seen.

When they'd arrived at the house the sky had been filled with heavy clouds, which obscured the moon. All they'd had to do was avoid the security guards who patrolled the top of the high perimeter wall; something they had a lot of experience with. Unfortunately, with the moon now illuminating the area, there was little hope of getting back across the clearing unnoticed.

"We will have to risk it," Illya whispered. "We cannot stay here for ever."

Napoleon frowned and looked up again. All they needed was a large cloud to cover the moon long enough to hide them. As though answering his plea, a single dark shape appeared from behind the house and moved steadily across the sky.

"Hello Darkness, my old friend," Napoleon muttered, grinning at Illya.

The Russian returned the smile and prepared himself to run. They didn't have to wait long and, as the light was temporarily dimmed, they darted across the clearing. No sooner had they reached the cover of the trees, the moon re-emerged.

"I guess God was watching over us tonight," said Solo.

"I would not say that, my friend," replied Kuryakin, the atheist. "But I am grateful regardless."

With their assignment completed, the men from U.N.C.L.E. left swiftly, without anyone knowing they'd ever been there.


	3. Standing By

**~So if you're mad, get mad****  
****Don't hold it all inside****  
****Come on and talk to me now****  
****Hey, what you got to hide?****  
****I get angry too****  
****Well I'm a lot like you****  
****When you're standing at the crossroads****  
****And don't know which path to choose****  
****Let me come along****  
****'cause even if you're wrong****  
****I'll stand by you**

**"I'll Stand By You" – The Pretenders~**

There was a great deal of evil in the world.

For those trying to counter it, such as the agents of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement, it often felt as though their battle was being lost. For the top team of Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin, that feeling was weighing heavily, follow a failed mission.

Their latest assignment had resulted in a win for evil. Although they had done everything possible to prevent Thrush's latest atrocity, they still carried the guilt of it. As was usual following results such as this, the two men headed for the apartment of one of them to drown their sorrows. This time, they found themselves in Napoleon's sitting room with a crate of beers.

For almost an hour they drank the beer while Solo became more and more angry about the unfairness of the world. The more he shouted, the madder he got. He paced back and forth, only pausing to grab another beer.

"I have a mind to just quit," he slurred. "We don't seem to be making a difference."

Illya was content to sit back and let his partner rant. It was unusual for the American to be the pessimistic one so, if he got into such a mood, it was better all round to let him work through it. Illya didn't care any less than Napoleon, but he was better at dealing with negative feelings; having had more practice. He was also able to compartmentalise, and put things aside to be dealt with later. Admittedly, holding everything inside wasn't the best thing for anyone, so he usually found a way to release it all eventually. Usually, he drank himself to oblivion on his own. He knew this wasn't healthy either, but it was working for him so far. Sometimes, Napoleon would get him to talk, and open up about things; which was exactly what Illya was doing for him.

Napoleon continued with his diatribe for another ten minutes. Illya was beginning to worry that his partner really wasn't going to calm down. Maybe this was the actual final straw.

"I'VE HAD ENOUGH!" Napoleon screamed; throwing his empty bottle against the wall.

The glass splintered into a many, jagged pieces and dropped onto the carpet. Napoleon swore and immediately tried to pick up the pieces. Unfortunately, in his inebriated state, he wasn't careful enough and he cut the palm of his right hand. He hissed in pain, and dropped to his knees.

"I know how you feel, my friend," Illya said gently, after he'd grabbed the first aid kit from Napoleon's bathroom and began tending to Napoleon's hand. "If you truly want to leave, I will support your decision."

"I am tempted," Solo stated sadly. "But what if that is the wrong decision?"

"There is only one way to find out."

"What could I do in the normal world?"

"Napoleon, you could do anything you wanted," Illya assured him. "Your skills are many and varied, so you would not be without options."

"There are upsides to our job I suppose," Solo went on. "Women, travel, women, food, women, and adventure."

"Do not forget women," Illya replied flatly.

Napoleon sighed deeply; his decision made.

"I'm not ready to quit yet," he stated. "For one thing, who would watch your back when I was gone?"

Illya smiled. Napoleon's words had said with humour, but Illya was also very aware that his partner did indeed have his back. More than that, he had the backs of every innocent in the world. As did everyone at the U.N.C.L.E.

"I am glad," said Illya. "Though I believe you could have had a lucrative career as a high-class gigolo."

There was a great deal of evil in the world.

Fortunately, it was balanced by a great deal of good; a force for which Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin played a large part. Hopefully, one day, the balance would tip more heavily in their favour but, until then, they could only keep fighting. Each had a partner that they could trust and rely upon and, in the grand scheme of things, that was really all they needed; someone to stand by them when the world became too much.


	4. You Can't Hold Back Time

It had been a reckless thing to do, and it had inevitably led to another hospitalisation. Although he had tried to justify his actions everyone, including himself, knew there was nothing he could say which would validate it.

"You're seventy-eight years old, Illya," Napoleon Solo admonished him. "You can't do what you used to be able to do."

Despite his advanced years, Illya Kuryakin ducked his head in the same manner would when he'd landed up in U.N.C.L.E. medical. He had never been one to worry what others thought of him but, whenever he was scolded by Napoleon or Mr Waverly, he would feel a deep sense of shame.

Illya looked to his closest friend and smiled at the familiarity of the scene. Solo's hair was now entirely white, and Illya's was starting to show signs of grey, but the scene mirrored the days when one would sit by the bedside of the other. Both had been injured on numerous occasions and both had spent many hours sitting vigil. That had been several decades ago, but nothing had changed. One would always be at the bedside of the other should the need arise.

"What made you do it?" Napoleon continued. "I know you look much younger than your years, but you're not Dorian Gray. There isn't a portrait in the attic."

"I..."

"Yes?"

"It seemed too good an opportunity to pass up," Illya finally admitted. "Forty-five years ago I could have done it without thinking."

Napoleon raised his eyebrows; silently pointing out the salient part of Illya's statement. The Russian merely shrugged in response.

"I'm not hurt all that badly," he said, folding his arms; once again echoing his time in U.N.C.L.E. medical.

"You've dislocated your knee and broken your wrist," Solo told him. "At your age that's extremely serious."

Illya ducked his head again.

"You are right my friend," he answered. "I cannot seem to accept that I am no longer young. I wish there was a portrait in my attic. I would give almost anything to be able to run, jump, and vault again."

Napoleon smiled sadly.

"Believe me, Tovarisch, I completely understand," he said. "We led a dangerous life when we were younger but, despite that, I often wish we were still living it."

The two men fell into a companionable silence for a few minutes, as they thought back to their active agent days.

"The thing is, Illya," Napoleon went on. "You have to face up to the fact you're not the slender, lithe athlete you once were."

"I know."

"So promise me you'll stay away from the assault course in the kids' play park."


	5. Cell Mates

"What's the Russian word for orange?" asked Napoleon Solo, as he and his partner waited in another cell.

They couldn't complain too much as they had cots, a lavatory and basin, plus light and warmth.

"The colour or the fruit?" asked Illya Kuryakin, wearily.

Napoleon was his partner, and his closest friend and, even though he trusted him with his life, there were times he could cheerfully strangle him. Not to death of course; just enough to send him into unconsciousness.

"Either."

"Oranzhevyy or apel'sin."

"I thought so," Napoleon muttered, before lapsing back into silence.

The two men were each laid on a cot with their hands behind their heads. They'd been like this since they'd been put there almost three hours previously. Ordinarily, being locked up together wasn't a problem for either man but, this time, Solo was agitated. In an effort to counter this, he had been stating most of his thoughts, however random, aloud. This, in turn, was agitating Illya. The Russian was happy to wait quietly, knowing that they would be released before too long, so therefore he had no need to make an escape himself. The American, on the other hand, was outraged that they had ended up in this situation in the first place. It had taken all of Illya's persuasion to stop him from breaking out and making matters worse.

After five minutes of silence it was obvious Napoleon wasn't going to elaborate on his last thought.

"Why did you ask?" queried Illya.

"Ask what?"

"The translation for orange."

"Oh, no reason really."

Illya gave out an overly exaggerated sigh, which promised pain and suffering if Napoleon didn't stop.

"There's no need to be like that," Solo stated. "It's your fault we're here."

"My fault?!" Illya exclaimed, as he sat up and turned to face his partner.

"Yes, you're the one who shot the guy."

"Darted," said Illya, with insistence. "On your say so, I might add. You told me he was our mark."

"So I was wrong."

"There are times Napoleon, when..."

Before Illya could finish his sentence, the cell door opened. NYPD detective, Charlie Bloom, stepped in.

"Okay gentlemen, you can go."

"So you finally believe our identities are what we say?" asked Napoleon.

The man Illya had darted had turned out to be Detective Bloom's partner. Bloom had immediately placed the agents under arrest, for assaulting a police officer. Naturally, the two men argued their case and gave their identities, all while complying with the detective. Bloom hadn't wanted to listen to their protestations, which they could hardly blame him for, and they'd figured they would be released quite quickly.

"I believed you from the start," Bloom replied. "I just get a little tired of you U.N.C.L.E. guys thinking you can run around my city waving your guns. When you shot my partner, I decided to teach you a lesson."

Solo and Kuryakin didn't answer. They knew the man could make their lives difficult if they antagonised him any further. They merely stood up, put on their jackets, and headed for the door.

"You can collect your equipment on the way out," Bloom told them, before breaking into a grin. "I took the liberty of informing your headquarters of your arrest, and the reason for it."

Napoleon and Illya gave each other a knowing look. Mr Waverly was going to have some very strong opinions on the events of the day.


	6. Saving the World One Person at a Time

It was still three weeks until Christmas but the city of New York was already looking festive. Everywhere was festooned with the lights, garlands, and decorations of the seasons. Even Illya Kuryakin was feeling cheered by the red-suited Santa Clauses which were appearing all over the city. It was something Napoleon couldn't fail to notice as they strolled back to the office following a leisurely lunch.

"Could it be you're warming to the festivities of Christmas?"

"I cannot deny it," Illya replied. "Although I do not adhere to the religious side of it, I do enjoy the idea of celebrating friends and family."

"And the presents?"

Illya was about to make a sarcastic reply when a young man crashed into him and ran off without a word. He would have brushed it off if he hadn't felt the young man's hand snaking into his jacket. A quick check told him what he already knew.

"He has my wallet!"

Both agents immediately took off after the thief.

The young man was surprised to find himself knocked to the ground, only two minutes later, by the man he had just robbed. He had chosen him as his victim because he looked slight, and unlikely to cause him any harm. The man with him hadn't worried him either. In his experience, most men who dressed so immaculately weren't a threat. He was finding out just how wrong he was.

"Don't hurt me," he squeaked, as Illya hauled him to his feet.

"Give it back!" the Russian snarled.

The thief instantly returned the wallet and, much to the agents' surprise, he burst into tears. It was only then that Illya took a proper look at his attacker. He was pale and scrawny, and the filthy clothes he was wearing were at least three sizes too big. Illya could also feel him shaking, and he was certain it was from more than just fear. Illya looked to Napoleon, who was wearing a look of compassion.

"What's your name and how old are you?" Napoleon asked.

"Tony," the young replied, with a sob. "I'm sixteen."

"Come with us," Napoleon told him. "You look like you could use a sandwich."

After relocating to the nearest diner, and buying Tony a decent meal, Illya asked him why he had stolen from him, and why they shouldn't get the local law enforcement involved. Between mouthfuls, Tony explained that he had been living on the streets for four months, after his new stepfather threw him out of the family home. Since then he had been surviving on whatever food he could steal. His theft from Illya had been his first attempt at pickpocketing.

As Illya watched the way Tony was shovelling the food into his mouth, he was transported to a time, two decades previously, when he had been forced to survive on whatever he could steal. Their situations were different, but Illya could understand Tony's desperation only too well.

"Are you going to hand me in?" Tony asked; his voice filled with fear.

"It's up to you," Napoleon said to Illya. "It was your wallet he took."

Illya thought about it.

"Do you have a criminal record?" he asked.

Tony shook his head, which was enough to make up Illya's mind. No matter what the country, as soon as someone entered the criminal justice system, they were more likely to continue down a nefarious path. Illya had the power and connections to set the youth on the right track.

"We can help you," he said. "If you will let us."

He and Napoleon explained to Tony what they who they were, and what they could do for him.

"Starting with a shower and a change of clothes," Napoleon commented. "Give me a couple of minutes, and I'll go and check in with the Old Man."

By the end of the day Mr Waverly had arranged for an U.N.C.L.E. approved foster family to take Tony in. He had also found a school place and a part time-time job for him.

"You must be getting soft in your old age," Napoleon commented to Illya later that evening.

"I know how it feels to live on the streets," Illya replied. "Besides, is Christmas not the time for gifts? We have given the boy the gift of a future."

Napoleon smiled. Their job was to save to world; even if it meant saving one person at a time.


	7. The Prize

Napoleon Solo tapped a fingernail against his last remaining casino chip, which sat alone on the edge of the roulette table. The golden chip was ostensibly worth $1000 but, in this case, it represented something other than money. He glanced across to the prize he was actually playing for.

Kneeling in the corner a battered and bruised Illya Kuryakin watched the game play out. He hadn't been bound but two guards stood with their weapons trained on him to ensure he didn't interfere. Illya knew the game was rigged, and that Napoleon had no chance of winning. However, he also knew that his partner would be running strategies through his mind which would get them both out.

Napoleon had been betting on Illya's life for a few hours, after finally tracking him down to the casino based satrapy of Archie Armstrong. The Russian had been tailing Armstrong, but was discovered, and promptly captured. Napoleon had been just as unlucky when attempting his rescue but, instead of giving the agent the same treatment as his partner, Armstrong had decided to have a little fun.

Solo had been given $500,000 in chips and instructed to play roulette with them. Should Solo win, by doubling the amount, he and Kuryakin would be set free. If he lost, they would both be handed to Thrush Central. The only rule was that Napoleon couldn't play a bet larger than $10,000. Armstrong had wanted to drag the game out for a fair while, and this was best way he could see of doing that.

Much to his surprise, Napoleon was betting much less than that. Although he didn't want Illya to suffer any more than he already had, he needed time to think. Several strategies had gone through his mind, but none of them had been viable. He had been stripped of weapons and equipment, and he was all too aware of the guns being held by the two guards.

Napoleon picked up his final chip and weaved it between his fingers as he continued to think.

"Well, Solo," Armstrong said, cutting into his ruminations. "Are you ready to play?"

Looking across to Illya once again, Napoleon shrugged one shoulder. To anyone else, it was a gesture of defeat. To Illya, who knew his partner well, it was a gesture which said 'get ready'. Napoleon had exhausted all possible ideas, leaving him with just one. It wasn't subtle, but it was all they had. They were at the point of all or nothing.

Without warning, Napoleon flung the chip straight at Armstrong's face. It hit him in the eye, causing him to cry out. This, in turn, made his guards turn their attention towards him. It was the moment Illya was waiting for. Despite the aches and pains from several beatings, and being forced to kneel for a long time, he sprang up like a gazelle. Knowing that Napoleon would dive for the guard nearest to himself, Illya aimed for the other. Solo's distraction had bought them more than enough time to disarm the guards and, although neither man like to kill if they could help it, they shot the three thrush men; killing them stone dead.

"It is not that I am unappreciative," Illya commented, as he and Napoleon made their escape. "But could you not have done that sooner?"

Solo opened his mouth to call his partner ungrateful, but shut it again immediately. It was a good question.

"To be honest, Tovarisch, I think I got so bogged down trying to come up with complex strategies that I forgot that simple ones are often the best."

Although the previous few hours had been torturous for him, Illya couldn't help but laugh at the expression of abject desolation on Napoleon's face. The American clearly thought he had failed.

"Do not worry, my friend," Illya told him. "It is sometimes difficult to see the forest for the trees. If it would help to ease your guilt a little, I shall allow you to buy be dinner."

He grinned broadly, which Napoleon couldn't prevent himself from mirroring.

"Smart Russian."


	8. The Snowman Strategy

**_~In the meadow we can build a snowman_****_  
_****_And pretend that he's a circus clown_****_  
_****_We'll have lots of fun with mister snowman_****_  
_****_Until the other kiddies knock him down_**

**_Winter Wonderland~_**

Two figures concealed themselves amongst the snow-laden trees at the edge of a large, empty field. Empty, that is, apart from the two men trudging across it. The hidden figures were Matthias Gomez and Tomasz Bosco, and they were Thrush operatives. The pair had been tailing UN.C.L.E. agents, Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin, for several hours, in the hope of intercepting a package they were carrying. The Thrushies didn't know if it was to be dead dropped or handed off, so had stuck to their quarry like glue.

As there was no cover in the field, the Thrush operatives decided to wait until they could follow the agents' tracks unseen. As they watched they were amused to see Solo bend down to scoop up a handful of snow. He slowly and carefully formed it into a ball and prepared to throw it at his partner. The Thrushies couldn't hear what Kuryakin was saying, but his body language was warning Solo off.

The American launched his snowball, hitting the Russian squarely in the chest. It also instigated a snowball battle which lasted almost five minutes; only ending hen Solo slipped and landed on his heiny. The two men laughed as Kuryakin helped his partner to his feet. There was a brief conversation before they began to, bizarrely, gather the snow into a pile. It wasn't until they gathered more snow into a large ball that the Thrushies realised the U.N.C.L.E. agents were making a snowman.

"I bet you five dollars that this is the dead-drop," Gomez muttered.

"You gotta be kidding," Bosco scoffed in reply. "Isn't that a bit obvious? Solo and Kuryakin wouldn't be that stupid."

"Exactly," said Gomez. "They know that we know they would never make it this easy, which is precisely why they would."

"Ah. A Double bluff."

Once the snowman was complete Kuryakin produced a small orange from his pocket and created a nose. It gave the snowman the hint of a circus clown. Solo patted the figure on the head before he and Kuryakin continued their walk across the field.

"Give them time to be well away," Gomez stated, then we'll retrieve the package.

Upon reaching the other side of the field, Napoleon and Illya mirrored their Thrush counterparts and hid amongst the trees which edged the open area. They had to wait a full twenty minutes before the enemy emerged and made a beeline for the snowman. The pair circled it for a while, looking for any sort of trap. As soon as they deemed it safe they started to kick it into oblivion. Bosco even ripped into the orange, but neither man found anything.

Dropping to his knees, Gomez dug through the snow until he exposed the ground beneath. Finally accepting the truth, he threw his head back and screamed at the sky.

"Get up," Bosco instructed. "We'll go after them."

"There's no point," Gomez told him. "Even if we follow their tracks, they'll be long gone by now."

Napoleon and Illya watched with amusement as the Thrushies trudged away. As soon as it was safe, they too went on their way. They had a package to deliver to Alexander Waverly.

"Why did you have an orange in your pocket?" Napoleon asked.

"You never know when you might need one?" Illya replied, offering no other explanation.


	9. The Calm Before the Storm

The beautiful blue of the sky reflected itself on the gently lapping water of the ocean. The same blue could be found in the eyes of the man sitting in t-shirt sleeves on the warm sand. His lightweight black jacket was discarded beside him. Illya Kuryakin watched as the tide slowing receded, leaving more and more sand exposed. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, and the gentlest of breezes took the edge from the heat of the sun.

Illya closed his eyes and smiled softly; feeling wonderfully peaceful and free. There had been a time, long ago, when the idea of sitting and exposing his pale skin to the sun was unthinkable. Back home, Illya had seen the sun, but the summers were shorter, and not as hot. Those times he had allowed the sun to touch his skin, he had been burned red in no time.

"What are you doing out here?" asked Napoleon Solo, emerging from the beach shack behind Illya.

"Enjoying the calm before the storm."

The pair had based themselves in the shack two days previously in order to reconnoitre the surrounding area. They had been sent to locate and destroy a Thrush laboratory and, although it a fairly standard mission, it would still be fraught with danger.

"I know you're a pessimist, Tovarisch," Solo replied, as he sat down beside his partner. "But calling the mission a storm might be overstating it a little. There's every chance you might not get injured this time."

The look Illya flashed at his partner could have frozen the warm waters in front of them, but he didn't rise to the taunt. He was determined to stay as relaxed as he could until it was time to get the adrenaline flowing.

The two men sat in a friendly silence for several minutes; each with their eyes closed, and feeling the warmth of the sun soaking through to their bones. Unfortunately, Napoleon knew he was going to have to burst the tranquil bubble around them.

"Have you prepped everything you need," he asked.

"Almost," Illya replied, without opening his eyes. "How long before we leave?"

"Half an hour."

Illya drew in a deep breath and slowly let it back out. Suddenly, the relaxed man was gone, and the ready-for-anything agent was back. He jumped to his feet and, scooping up his jacket, he stalked into the shack to finish preparing his equipment.


	10. Just One Name

The meal in front of Napoleon Solo would need to be doubled in size in order to be described as meagre. To him it looked like a feast. This, of course, was entirely the point. His captors had withheld the food for four days; only allowing him enough water to keep him alive. However, being securely strapped to a chair meant that Napoleon couldn't reach the thin broth, and the hunk of bread. There was barely enough broth for four mouthfuls, and the bread was no bigger than a child's fist, but the smell from them was driving Napoleon crazy. His captor couldn't fail to hear the loud rumbling from his belly.

"Just one name, Solo," stated Katarina Sanchez sweetly. "One little name and we'll let you eat."

Napoleon licked his lips. His stomach was waging war against his resolve, and he wasn't sure which would win. For four days he had kept telling himself he would not break. Napoleon wasn't a stranger to torture and had had been conditioned by U.N.C.L.E. to withstand quite a lot. He hadn't reckoned on the power of hunger.

"A single name, Solo. Two little words."

Napoleon briefly wondered how his partner would deal with this situation, and decided it would probably be much better than he was. The Russian was accustomed to starvation. Even though he had a greater access to food these days, there had still been times when he had gone days without it. A smile flitted across Napoleon's exhausted feature. His partner could easily go without food when necessary, but if he was half an hour late getting to lunch he would complain for the rest of the day.

Miss Sanchez nodded to the other person in the room. Napoleon didn't know his name, but he did know he was huge and strong. The brute picked up the bowl of broth and moved it around under Solo's nose. As the scent of the broth hit his nostrils, Napoleon couldn't stop himself from drooling. He closed his eyes in an effort to block out the broth, but this just made the scent seem more accentuated.

"Tell us which U.N.C.L.E. agent will be transporting the updated list of agent's details to Europe," Miss Sanchez instructed, keeping her sweet tone. "Give us that name and this broth will be yours."

Napoleon's stomach rumbled again. He could almost believe that it was grumbling at been in such close proximity to what it needed. Napoleon would have given almost anything for just one mouthful but, thinking about what the list represented, he knew that he would rather die before giving it up.

Only he, Mr Waverly and, of course, the courier agent knew who was carrying the list, and Napoleon refused to but the man in jeopardy. Nor was he prepared to risk the lives of those listed. The information contained would allow to Thrush to shut down many of U.N.C.L.E.'s worldwide operations.

Rapidly running out of patience, Miss Sanchez barked at the goon to bring the chateaubriand with béarnaise sauce and potatoes. Napoleon almost groaned. It wasn't easy to turn down such a meal when he wasn't starving.

"Did you hear that, Solo?" she asked him when the brute was gone. "I know it is a favourite of yours. Give me that name and we'll free you to eat it."

Napoleon didn't say anything. He was about to shake his head when the door opened. Miss Sanchez didn't turn around to look.

"Illya Kuryakin," Napoleon whispered.

"Nice try, Solo," Miss Sanchez replied. "But he would be too obvious."

"For that job maybe."

Before the woman could question his statement, she dropped inelegantly to the floor; a dart protruding from her shoulder."

"I am sorry to be late," Illya said, holding his gun in one hand and the chateaubriand in the other. "We had difficulty locating you. I purloined this from a giant who is now sleeping. You look like you need it."

Napoleon grinned at Illya's words. While he was desperate to get out of the place, and back to civilisation, he needed to eat first.

"I would offer you some, Tovarisch, but my need is greater."

"Do not worry, my friend, I will allow you to make up for it at a later date."


End file.
